


Here Be Dragons

by deliciae



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 14:41:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deliciae/pseuds/deliciae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the teachers and students of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry mess with the seemingly inexhaustible succession of High Inquisitors, 'passive'-aggressively waging war on the Ministry of Magic. Minister Precursor really should have known better than to cut the funding of one of the greatest schools in the wizarding world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sixteen Sickles an Ounce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Chau hates Hogwarts, but hates the Ministry of Magic more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Christmas gift for the infinitely patient [random-bull](http://random-bull.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. What started out as a simple prompt has now mutated into a seven-vignette project. Thank you so much for putting up with the slowest writer in the Milky Way - I'll be updating here on AO3 instead of tumblr, due to the length of this gift. Also, for readers intimate with the books and movies, I hope you enjoy the little bits and pieces here and there!
> 
> Rated for Chuck's Aussie mouth, just to be safe, otherwise... Please enjoy!

Red paper lanterns of miscellaneous heights hang from the stone ceiling, rinsing into the chamber a warm ambience. In the charm of colored candlelight Hannibal sits alone and swills his thoughts like a glass of good Firewhiskey, his impressive burly form swathed in velvet and silk brocade.

His desk is chaos. In the centre sits a steaming cauldron, the contents turning a pale shade of lilac as a shriveled bean squeezes itself of its juice over it. A mess of laboratory glassware is strewn across the countertop, amidst those tiny jars and cloth sachets Muggles are so fond of using for their spices, as well as a copy of today’s _Daily Prophet_. The front page boasts the news:

> _MINISTRY CALLS FOR EDUCATIONAL REFORM_
> 
> _BUREAUCRAT AXEHEAD APPOINTED FIRST-EVER “HIGH INQUISITOR”_
> 
> _In a surprise move last night the Ministry of Magic formerly passed new legislation, giving itself an unprecedented level of control at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, writes Naomi Sokolov, Special Correspondent. “The Minister for Magic has been concerned about Hogwarts since the school received an undisclosed amount of Galleons from an anonymous benefactor, for the tragic blaze it suffered in 2020,” said Junior Assistant to the Minister of Magic Breach. “He is now responding to concerns voiced by both anxious parents and ministerial officials.”_
> 
> _Such concerns undoubtedly involve the release of recent intelligence which allege that Headmaster Stacker Pentecost, former esteemed Auror and once a British seat on the International Confederation of Wizards, has been using illegitimate means as well as associating with subversive goblin and werewolf groups to fund the prestigious school. Other controversies previously described in this newspaper include Pentecost’s eccentric staff appointments, such as half-giant Aleksis Kaidonovsky and “reformed” black market dealer Hannibal Chau, who pioneered the illegal trade of dragon eggs. (For more of Pentecost’s questionable choices of members in his employ, refer to Daily Prophet archives.)_
> 
> _The Wizengamot has also tried a number of Hogwarts students over the last few years on charges of violating the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery. Speculation suggests the 12 August disciplinary hearing of Raleigh Becket, 16, was the catalyst that drove the Ministry to pass an Educational Decree which creates the new position of Hogwarts High Inquisitor. Wizengamot elder and bureaucrat Axehead was thus appointed to the teaching staff at Hogwarts, in order to provide the Minister with information about suspicious goings-on at the school._
> 
> _“I think the appointment of the Inquisitor is a first step toward ensuring that Hogwarts has a headmaster in whom we can all repose confidence,” said Minister Precursor himself last night. “This is an exciting new phase in a plan to remedy what some are calling the falling standards at Hogwarts. The Inquisitor will therefore have powers to inspect both educators and students to make sure that they are coming up to scratch. Professor Axehead has been offered this position, and we are delighted to say he has accepted.”_
> 
> _This is not the first time in recent years Precursor has used new laws to effect change at the wizarding school, such as the removal of privileges and government funds from Pentecost. Colleagues and old friends of the headmaster have been quick to make such a point, while protesting at the introduction of the post of Inquisitor to Hogwarts. “Hogwarts is a school, not an outpost of Precursor’s office,” said deputy headmaster Tendo Choi. Professor Hercules Hansen, a former Auror alongside Pentecost, agrees: “This is just a stupid attempt to discredit Stacker Pentecost.”_
> 
> _On the other hand, the Ministry’s new moves have received enthusiastic support from parents of students at Hogwarts. “I feel better now that Pentecost is being objectively evaluated,” said Tommy Sitka, father of four. “Many of us with our children’s best interests at heart have been worried about things we’ve been hearing, and we’re glad Minister Precursor is actively addressing them.”_
> 
> _Further investigations by the Department of Magical Education will thus continue into the rumours about Stacker Pentecost’s suspected agendas, who has yet to disclaim them as well as answer Daily Prophet questions. Could this be the rather humiliating end of an enduring twelve years at Hogwarts for one of the “greatest wizards in the world”?_

Hannibal doesn’t read the _Daily Prophet_. There are few things outside his dungeon he gives half a rat’s ass about; there are even fewer things that would compel one Stacker Pentecost to disrespect this. So when he found the paper waiting for him in his office, he instantly knew he was being summoned. He smirks at the thought – Hannibal Chau being _summoned_ – as he turns his hawthorn wand over in his hands, watching the glass rod stir his potion seven times counterclockwise, once clockwise … seven times counterclockwise, once clockwise …

The lilac gradually dilutes into the color of water, deceptive in its transparency, and Hannibal’s potion is ready – he’s getting drowsy from just breathing in the fumes. He fills a single phial with the stuff and pockets it, before clearing his desk of all evidence with a languid flick of his wand. The glassware and cauldron find their way back into their respective cupboards; the unregistered potion ingredients he smuggled return to his person; the _Daily Prophet_ joins the charred wood in the stone fireplace.

Not that Hannibal begrudges Miss Sokolov for her words. It isn’t completely wrong of her to suggest he hasn’t quite retired from his old life – libelous, but not completely wrong. And no doubt, should his side business of Dark artifacts and potions come to light, this Inquisitor Axehead (“Trespasser”, as Choi nicknamed him) will most likely pressure Pentecost to terminate his contract. Not to mention _he’s_ the one who anonymously donated several hundred galleons – money from his black marketeering days – to help rebuild Hogwarts after that horrific fire.

He’ll be one of, if not, the first to go, and the mere thought – Hannibal Chau _dismissed_ – makes his skin crawl. Hannibal scoffs as he slips on his tinted glasses. He can’t imagine the Potions classroom without the black lacquer and red silks with golden embroideries, without his personal effects and exotic curios invading the shelves of glass bell jars and leather-bound tomes, without the large wooden catalogue cabinets hiding the walls. The idea of being replaced –

He snuffs out the lantern lights with his wand before he can further dwell on it, and he’s on his way, down the labyrinthine corridors of the dungeon. Eleven years he’s been teaching at this school. Eleven years, although he was apathetic when he first moved here, holding Pentecost and the other teachers in contempt as the office and classroom he was given felt just like the holding cell in Azkaban. Hannibal likes to think he still does.

He finally emerges from the dungeons. Flaming torches line the walls of the entrance hall, each with their own ornate sconce. The luminance is mellow, spilling across the flagstones underfoot and constantly touching the high arches and clustered columns overhead, accentuating the mood and personality of the castle, as if it were alive.

Hannibal invests little into the romantic scene however; Choi stands by the marble staircase, swarmed by boisterous, bright-eyed, and baby-faced students. First years. Awaiting their sorting.

“There’s nothing to be scared about!” he’s telling them, wrenching on a reassuring smile. He looks ready to murder for a tankard of coffee. “Trust me, you wouldn’t have gotten a letter if we didn’t want you here.”

Murmuring ripples throughout the crowd, before one of the most petite, doll-like girls Hannibal’s ever seen nudges her way to the front. She casts her gaze downwards, like her shoes are the most interesting things in the hall. “My brother,” she says softly, “told me we have to wrestle a troll.”

Maybe it’s the absurdity of the notion, maybe he’s just a cruel man; Hannibal laughs throatily, loud enough for Choi and the first years to realize his presence. A few tykes squeak and shrink into themselves, but many crane their necks to get a look at the man in velvet and silk brocade watching them from the dark. They all lapse into silence then, the discomfiture in the air near stifling.

“Ah, kids, this is Professor Chau. He’ll be your Potions teacher,” Choi says, and his relief is almost palpable, though for what, Hannibal’s unsure. He beckons to Hannibal anyway. “He’s also Head of Slytherin and also late,” Choi adds pointedly.

Rumors dispel the disquiet, most of which involve his peculiar choice to identify with the color red. Hannibal bites the inside of his cheek, before thinking _Ah, what the hell_. He pulls his trademark grin, sauntering over to the children with the gait of a man who promises mischief.

“What’s this I hear about wrestling trolls?” he asks, crossing his arms. The little girl blushes furiously as her peers all look to her. “That’s a ridiculous idea – a troll could squash you brats with just a foot. You wouldn’t last a second against one.”

“ _Professor Chau_.”

“I’m serious, _Professor Choi_ ,” Hannibal quips.

He’s about to go on about how trolls like their first years pot roasted, but stops himself when he notices the girl getting teary, her pretty, wide eyes glazed over in horror. A pang of _something_ pierces his gut. Hannibal’s always been nasty to kids, even the ones in his own house. But seeing the girl and her peers look like they want to burn their Hogwarts letters and go back home, he feels a little – what’s the word? Ah, _guilty._

So he finds himself bending over slightly so he doesn’t tower over the children. He pauses, then leans in as if to share a secret, motioning for the first years to draw closer. They obey out of fear.

He says, almost kindly, “But that’s what we prepare you for here at Hogwarts. We have some of the best teachers in the wizarding world here, myself included – by the end of your seven years, you all should be able to singlehandedly take on five trolls all at once!”

“But what about the test? What if I fail and don’t get sorted?” the girl pipes up. She’s still anxious, but her eyes shine of determination instead of tears.

“Now don’t you worry about getting sorted,” Hannibal says. “You’ve already been accepted into Hogwarts, and Hogwarts is the special kind of place that chooses its occupants. If you’re unsuited for the school, one: you shouldn’t have gotten a letter in the first place, and two: you’ll in time find yourself back on the Hogwarts Express, if not at the bottom of the Black Lake or something. And I can see you’ve all crossed the Black Lake safely so…”

The children erupt into titters and blathers, suddenly motivated to do well in the “test”, breathing into the hall renewed vigor. Hannibal glances up at Choi, who’s frowning and smiling at the same time, like he’s mulling over whether to burst into applause or get Hannibal checked into the hospital wing. Instead, he approaches Hannibal.

“Did Pentecost blackmail you or something?” he asks, with a cheeky grin.

“Nah.” Hannibal waves dismissively. “This has nothing to do with what he wants from me.”

“Alright then. Well, you might as well come in with us,” Choi says, thumbs under his suspenders. He turns to the first years. “The Sorting Ceremony’s about to start. Get in line and follow me and Professor Chau.”

They do so, smartening themselves up as they rush to form an orderly line. Hannibal smirks and makes an _after you_ gesture to Choi. It’s the first time he’s attended the start-of-term feast in all his years here (not giving half a rat’s ass and all); he’s not quite sure what to expect. The grand double oak doors across the hall swing open and, with Choi heading them, they’re making their way into the Great Hall.

Above him, floating candles light up the ceiling – a vast canvas sponged with dark watercolors and speckled with star dust which echoes the night sky outside. Silk banners bearing the school coat of arms adorn the walls. All the other students have found their friends at their respective house tables; all his colleagues are already at the High Table. Hushed but animated conversations spread faster than Fiendfyre, following him down the hall.

Newt does a double take when he notices him with Choi and the first years, jaw slackening. Gottlieb, the triplets, the Kaidonovskys, Becket, and Hansen – their surprise is infinitely subtler. Pentecost however, the smug bastard, doesn’t seem at all fazed. In fact, tilting his head slightly to lend an ear to the stranger on his left, the wizard looks annoyed if anything.

 _You’re late_ , his eyes say. They shift to his left. It’s Axehead, Hannibal realizes.

A surge of fierce protectiveness rockets through his blood. Axehead and the Ministry pose a threat on the teachers before him and the students behind him. Educational reform? Hannibal inwardly scoffs. He’s not sure which school standards have been seeing gradual decay, but he can vouch that half the magic taught at Hogwarts isn’t within the obvious confines of the classroom. You can only cram so many spells into someone’s head, and even then, such knowledge is useless without some empathy and experience. This other kind of magic is embedded in the moments and memories made in-between lessons; the phantom laughter and tears and shouts and whispers that linger in the castle and on school grounds well into the summer holidays.

And Hannibal has been summoned to protect that. No doubt wizards like Pentecost will call what he’s about to do _revolution._ Wizards not quite as dignified, like Hannibal, will call it _self-defense._

Hannibal won’t lie. He’s not benevolent, all lavish costume and exaggerated gestures and memorable one-liners like a villain. He’s not a man of sentiment or innuendo, and frankly, he gives half a rat’s ass about very few things in his life.

Unfortunately for Axehead and the Ministry, Hogwarts is one of those things.

So when Axehead is admitted to St. Mungo’s not three days after classes start, still comatose just as he was found at the bottom of the marble staircase, all Hannibal has to say to the _Daily Prophet_ about the incident is that “There must be something in the pumpkin juice at Hogwarts.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that’s part one, or the prologue - next will be the Wei Triplets, and some more lighthearted stuff. Again, thank you thank you thank you to [random-bull](http://random-bull.tumblr.com/) for being such a lovely giftee!


	2. Five Hundred Feet Long, a Hundred and Eighty Feet Wide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Wei triplets used to represent China in Quidditch, and now represent the best class subjects at Hogwarts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started this work way back for Christmas 2013, and upon rediscovering some old fan fiction wips on an old hard drive, I feel very compelled to finish what I've started! I hope you enjoy, whether you're more of a Pacific Rim or Harry Potter fan xx

The sky tastes both sweet and sour on Cheung’s tongue, like lemon syrup, although he’s going to close his mouth now since Hu looks like he just swallowed a fly. Jin’s sniggering turns into full-blown laughter, before he remembers himself and tosses the Quaffle to Cheung to fly over and check on Hu.

Turns out Hu’s faking it, playfully knocking broomsticks with Jin when he’s close enough, and grappling the youngest Wei into a headlock. Fifty feet in the air.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Cheung calls out, trying to sound professional. He can almost hear the scritch-scratch of Otachi’s quill tip etching notes onto parchment as she watches them from the stands. He switches to the Wu dialect. “ _Let’s finish off with the Thundercloud Formation._ ”

His younger brothers right themselves, nodding to him, and the mood above the Quidditch pitch takes a turn for the solemn. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath through his nostrils, Cheung enjoys the tactile sensations of sun and wind on his back, before waving to the Keeper on the opposite end of the pitch. Once he gets an affirmative signal, he grasps the handle of his Crimson Three Thousand and, with a light touch, dips it. The wind shifts around him, and he’s freefalling, Hu and Jin right behind him.

They abruptly pull up in tandem after some twenty feet, and in a heartbeat they’re racing side-by-side towards the goal hoops, Cheung with the Quaffle in the middle. Without a look or word, Hu and Jin break away from him, and suddenly they’re all weaving around one another, crisscrossing left and right this way and that, the red ball exchanging hands swiftly without falter or fumble.

Cheung doesn’t even need to think. They’ve been doing this for so long, the three of them, that his body and broom have memorised the motions.

As they draw closer and closer to the goal hoops, they fly straight and pass the Quaffle to one another in a seemingly practised, near unremarkable sequence. It’s like the shell game, all confidence tricks and sleights of hand that distract the Keeper, playing on his concentration and capacity to predict them. Jin’s the last to get to his position, but the second he’s at just the right angle, blatantly ready to score, Cheung prepares to underarm the ball to him. The Keeper catches on and instinctively flies over to mark Jin, which is fine, because with a simple manoeuvre Cheung redirects the ball to Hu, who knocks it into the forty-foot goal with the end of his broom. Show off.

There’s a chorus of hoots and cheers down on the pitch, and for a moment, Cheung and Hu and Jin are back at the Quidditch World Cup final – a complete, identical set of Chasers playing for China on the global stage. After retrieving the Quaffle and shaking hands with the Keeper, Cheung and his brothers land by their audience.

“That was amazing!” one of the Gryffindor Chasers says, bouncing on the balls of his feet as Cheung dismounts his Crimson. “That was the Thundercloud Formation, wasn’t it? I’ve seen you guys do it before back in 2018, but it’s so much easier to watch when there aren’t other people and balls flying around the stadium at the same time – although it’d be harder for you, wouldn’t it? Since you’d have to pretend you’re dodging other players –”

“It’s actually not too bad,” Hu says, grinning.

“It helps us reassert the basics,” Jin clarifies, leaning on his broom.

Cheung nods. “We haven’t flown like that in ages. Thanks for asking us to help out.”

“Alright, alright, that’s enough for today. Leave ’em alone and get back to training,” a voice says, grounding the mood with a sternness that could lend gravitas to any situation. “Practise those manoeuvres you’ve been kindly demonstrated all morning. I want you all working on your feints and passes.”

The Gryffindor team members mutter under their breath but mount their brooms anyway, and with a chorus of “Up!” they take to the ashen skies. The brothers turn to acknowledge Herc as he comes onto the field to join them.

“Thanks for taking them in for a bit, boys,” he says, clapping them on their backs. “I know you’ve got stuff on as well, but…”

“No problem,” says Hu.

“Our pleasure,” says Jin.

“I hope it helps them out,” Cheung finishes.

Herc places a heavy hand on his shaven head fondly, in a rare display of affection. “I’m hoping. With you backing them, I’m sure they’ll be a lot better this year. Slytherin keeps smashing us, but. Came real close to monopolising Quidditch at Hogwarts, last year.”

Hu snorts. “Yeah, I think Chuck mentioned it once –”

“Or twice –” Jin mutters.

“Every day –”

“All last term –”

“Enough,” Cheung says, cuffing his brothers on their heads. “Chuck’s _father_ happens to be right here.”

Chuck’s father who’s Australian, and probably got off on Billywig stings and barbecued his prawns with the flames of an Antipodean Opaleye back in Australia, which means he doesn’t need a measly wand to take on three wizards at once.

“No, no,” Herc just laughs, waving it off (Cheung breathes a sigh of relief when Herc doesn’t pull his wand on them). “I’m getting sick of it too. I’m proud of the kid, but he’s letting it get to his head.”

Cheung shrugs. “He’s earned it.”

“Well…” Herc starts, scratching some itch near the back of his neck, before shaking his head. “Either way, you boys better get back and get on with –” He makes a vague gesture.

“That’s right,” murmurs Hu. “I need to organise Monday’s lesson on levitation charms.”

Jin grimaces. “I’ve got first years and flying. And the headmaster keeps asking me to take on Alchemy.”

“Have to sort out my lecture for the 1911 Gargoyle Strike,” Cheung says. He shoves at Hu and Jin when they make a face.

Herc just nods, waves them off in the direction of Hogwarts castle as he heads towards the stands to watch his house Quidditch team. Cheung nudges his brothers, and they gather up their gear and begin the arduous trek back up the ragged slopes. Cheung’s joints groan in protest, aching for the soothing touch of soapy, scalding waters.

“Oh, and one last thing,” Herc calls out.

They halt in their tracks (Cheung’s body screams) and glance back at Herc, who crosses his arms and smirks. He jerks his head back.

They dart their gaze over to the stand where Otachi, the High Inquisitor succeeding Axehead, is shaking her head at the Gryffindor players flying past her. She jots down something with her royal blue feather quill; Cheung swears he can still hear the scritch-scratch noise.

When they focus on him again, Herc’s wearing a smile that raises the hairs on the back of Cheung’s neck.

“It’s been decided. Stacker says this one’s yours.”

\---

It’s kind of stupid of the headmaster to assign Otachi to them, Cheung decides. They can’t pull off a guileless stunt without the Ministry and the _Daily Prophet_ coming after them, not after Chau’s gone all out right off the bat. 

Cheung finishes up marking the last essay, tossing it onto the top of the pile, before reclining in his chair and massaging his temples. Across the dimly lit classroom, Hu and Jin have pushed together a few students’ desks to sit on, joking and laughing as they take turns at a box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans. Jin picks out a green one Cheung suspects is sprouts flavoured. 

“Overcooked cabbage!” Jin splutters. Close enough.

It’s Hu’s turn now. “That’s vomit,” Cheung says, when he chooses a rather colourful bean.

Jin slaps Hu’s knee and howls, while Hu just stares at it, mortified. “Why don’t you join in then, if you’re so good at this?” he snaps, more to delay the inevitable than anything.

Cheung huffs out, amused, but shakes his head. “I’m trying to figure out what we’re going to do.”

His brothers exchange side glances, and then shrug in a _suit yourself_ sort of gesture. They continue on with the same game, only toning down their volume so the oldest can concentrate. Cheung smiles fondly at them. 

They’re still five years old at heart, Cheung thinks wistfully. Even back then they knew they were destined for the skies. 

Before Hogwarts, before Quidditch, before magic, all the Wei triplets ever wanted was to fly. “ _I’m going to be a pilot!_ ” Cheung used to say, as they chased each other around the three-storey townhouse they grew up in, or the ramshackle alleys of Shanghai. “ _I’ll fly us all over the world! Wherever we want to go, I’ll fly us there!_ ”

Sometimes they’d play with the children of fishmongers and poultry and vegetable hawkers at the neighbourhood market, darting in-between food carts and street vendors and peddlers selling trinkets and knickknacks like they were airplanes. If Cheung was endearing enough, exploiting his babyish and cherubic appearance despite being the eldest, he could wheedle a free colourful plastic windmill or balloon for them to share. 

But they had the most fun when it was just the three of them, sprinting down the narrow lanes, where lines of laundry strung between the apartments stencilled shadows into the sunlight on the cobblestones. This way, no one would see when they released a toy windmill, or a balloon that wasn’t inflated with helium, and watched it defy gravity and disappear into the clouds. 

The first time their parents caught them inadvertently using what they’d later find out to be magic, it was when they were levitating their workbooks to hide on the roof, in a foolish attempt to avoid homework. A thwack on the rear each set them straight, only for their superstitious grandmother to scold their mother for using the broom. “ _It’s bad luck, bad luck! This will curse you!_ ”

That last memory shatters Cheung’s reverie, and he flails and falls off his chair. Hu and Jin are by his side in an instant. Cheung ignores their “ _Idiot_ ” comments and pulls them down to the ground with him. 

“Guys,” he says, his tone silencing their complaints, “I have an idea.”

\---

It takes thirty-seven Galleons, fifteen Sickles, and three Knuts to bribe Chau, a fortnight free of homework to recruit one of Cheung’s History of Magic classes, and several covert trips to Hogsmeade to replenish their practical joke supply. They’re ready.

The Great Hall is breath-taking as ever, lit by candles in the grinning jack-o’-lanterns lining the walls and floating in the air, coupled with the pearly glow of the ghosts wandering through the tables and the pale countenance of the Hallowe’en moon. Only the clinking of cutlery on golden plates and hearty conversations between stuffed mouths dispel the eeriness of the live bats and dancing skeletons; tonight’s black pudding is served with a side dish of gossip, primarily concerning Professor Chau’s peculiar change of heart regarding public appearances. 

With one more headcount along the high table – Gottlieb, Geiszler, Chau, Aleksis, Sasha, Tendo, Headmaster, Otachi, Herc, Yancy, himself, Hu, and Jin – Cheung mentally prepares for any and all consequences he will shoulder for his brothers should they fail. 

At Hu and Jin’s nod, he mutters a quick prayer and apology to his late grandmother, then catches and holds the collective gaze of several fifth years at the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables. Chaos follows a heartbeat after. 

“FOOD FIGHT!” someone bellows, and the first handful of pumpkin pasties catapults through the air, from Ravenclaw to Slytherin, splattering Chuck Hansen square in the face. The triplets may or may not have given rather specific instructions to the fifth years.

Chuck recovers swiftly, however, leaping out of his seat and drawing his wand. With a near casual swish, another Slytherin student’s half-finished shepherd’s pie is gracefully hurled over the heads of his housemates, right past the offending Ravenclaw fifth years, and straight into the back of the head of one Raleigh Becket. Hu hums softly in approval. 

Things spiral completely out of control after this: no doubt the sight of mashed potatoes (Herc audibly winces) in the Head Boy’s once perfectly coiffed hair instilled something a declaration of war could not. Raleigh’s retaliation – wand out in a blink of an eye; “ _Waddiwasi!_ ”; Chuck’s plate of goulash launches itself onto his robes – doesn’t help much either, although Hu leans forward in his seat, incessantly pleased.

The Great Hall erupts with screams as flurries of food puncture the night, making new homes on stone walls and uniforms instead of inside stomachs. Chuck and Raleigh throw themselves into the heart of the battle, and would be at each other’s throats if not for Mako Mori and her not so inconsiderable talent in the Jelly-Legs Jinx (and in everything else, for that matter).

“Those two…” Yancy murmurs to Cheung and Herc, shaking his head, although making no move to reinstate order. In his defence, neither do any of the other teachers, much to Cheung’s relief.  
Otachi, on the other hand, is livid.

“Pentecost, do something!” she shrieks.

The headmaster pauses – meditates – before gently slumping back in his chair and closing his eyes. There’s a ghost of a smile gracing his tired features. Hinging her slack jaw, Otachi curses Hogwarts under her breath and gets up herself then, wand at the ready as she storms around the high table to the front of the hall. With a harsh utterance, the students are forced back into seats regardless of house, food projectiles knocked out of their hands to the floor with sorry squelches and splatters and the exhilarated breath knocked out of their chests into the suddenly still night air. They’re quick to wipe off their grins at the homicidal aura Otachi’s giving off.

“A disgrace!” she screams, spittle flying everywhere. “A crying shame, the lot of you! I should have you all in detention for the next month!”

Chuck bristles. “But Quidditch starts –”

“ _Enough_! I will have order! Things at Hogwarts are far worse, far _wretched_ than I feared!” Otachi then turns on the teachers, her hunches raised and her small beady eyes wide and wild. “Your ‘students’ – your ‘school’ – is out of hand, Pentecost! I will _not_ stand for such displays of disorder and disrespect!”

Jin makes for the kill before Otachi can continue.

“Professor Otachi!” he gasps, abruptly standing from his seat with his hands clasped over his mouth. He desperately points to the empty chair left of the headmaster; Cheung’s mind idly wanders to thoughts of how Jin could have been a theatre actor in a past life. “You left your seat! This cannot bode well for you!”

“What?” Otachi snaps, almost hissing.

Cheung has to force the scowl from spreading across his face at the manner in which his youngest brother is being spoken to. He knows Hu is most likely hiding the same expression under a veneer of feigned worry.

“You shouldn’t have left your seat, Professor,” Hu explains. “It is said that when thirteen people dine together, the first to leave the table will be the first to die.”

A rumour of hushed conversation washes throughout the Great Hall, its students whispering amongst themselves.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Otachi snaps again. She reverts her glower from Jin and Hu back to the headmaster. “I would have thought your staff above nonsensical superstitions, _Pentecost_.” She almost spits out the name, acid heavy on her tongue.

Headmaster Pentecost does not retort, does not rise to take the bait to defend himself.

Cheung stands then. He is calm when Otachi’s sharp eyes shift to him.

He thinks of his blood family, of his hometown, of his childhood. Of all the photographs he and his brothers have of themselves – from autographed Chinese National Team posters to special issue _Seeker Weekly_ magazine covers – one of the most precious is a grainy and colour-warped photograph in which the subjects don’t move. It’s of the _shikumen_ townhouse they grew up in; a young couple stand motionlessly in front of the doorstep with an older woman, each with an armful of tubby boy swaddled in matching fleece pyjamas. Their mother and father and maternal grandmother.

He thinks of his new magical family, of Hogwarts, of his students. He thinks of the first years who cannot remember Emeric the Evil from Uric the Oddball both from the European Middle Ages, thinks of the sixth and seventh years who continue with his classes ever insatiable for more knowledge on witch hunts, on goblin rebellions, on giant wars. He thinks of his brothers: remembers Hu beaming while marching down the Charms Corridor after teaching a class the levitation spell and its variations for the very first time and for every ‘first time’ after; remembers Jin’s quick, enthusiastic chatter and dramatic hand gestures as he recounted his students’ (rather precarious though undoubtedly encouraged) broom flight and Apparition shenanigans at the end of school day and then again at the end of the school year.

He thinks of defending China’s Quidditch title in 2022, and losing. He imagines defending Hogwarts against the Ministry of Magic, and losing. The latter leaves a much, much more bitter aftertaste in his mouth.

Cheung levels his gaze, meets Otachi’s eyes. “Our grandmother passed away several years ago. She was the first to rise in a company of thirteen only seven days prior.” The lie comes out easily, naturally almost. “My family does not regard superstitions lightly, Professor. I would advise you not to make that mistake as we did that day.”

Otachi is quiet for a moment, still trembling with barely-contained fury, though Cheung doesn’t miss the falter in her wand hold, the twitch of her eye.

When she finally speaks again her voice is strained but pressing, like something urgent has taken a hold of her, possessing her: “Have the students go to bed, _now_. No more dinner, no more mess.”

Headmaster Pentecost gently hums in thoughtful assent, and stands as if to order the students away. But when Otachi hurriedly excuses herself and leaves the Great Hall, suddenly in a rush to attend to an apparently important Ministry matter, the headmaster simply procures his wand from a sleeve of his robes and clears the hall of all evidence of the food fight with a snap of his wrist. Before a student could so much as squeak in surprise, the four house tables became laden once again with a banquet of themed courses and candy (Cheung quietly sympathises with the elves in the kitchens). Stomachs audibly rumble at the sight; at the subtle behest of the headmaster, who only makes a shushing motion with a finger to his cheeky smile, the students happily if soundlessly dig in. The teachers, Cheung and his brothers included, hardly hesitate before they too resume dinner.

The Hallowe’en Feast, as such, ends not with a bang as the triplets expected, but with conspiratorial whispers.

\---

Like in Cheung’s spun tale of their grandmother’s misfortune and doom, it is seven days before the cursed luck catches up with Otachi. 

She does not die; no, of course not. Though the frog spawn and Dungbombs contaminating all personal soaps and bathroom plumbing (courtesy of Apparition lessons with Jin), the Howlers hidden under bedroom floorboards and wallpaper that went off in the middle of the night (the result of Hu’s ‘practical’ coursework on concealment charms), and the Stink Pellets lovingly handsewn into every robe hem and lining (Cheung inherited their mother’s needle- and stitch-work) were all omens ill enough to chase Otachi far away from Hogwarts for fear of her life.

And if Tendo, being the gifted seer that he is, teases holes in Cheung’s plan with vague prophecies about a “cryptic pregnancy” and some “fourteen, not thirteen” nonsense or other, the three Wei brothers just ignore the deputy headmaster and go about (attempting) undoing their disgusting pranks lest the frog spawn spread to every school toilet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last the triplets' chapter as promised four years ago. Hopefully the Kaidonovskys' chapter next will not take as long! Thank you for reading - kudos and comments and ideas are always appreciated, and you can find me also on tumblr [here](http://littleneuroses.tumblr.com/) xx


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